


In Strife and Smooth Sailing

by Captain_Panda



Series: Cap'n Panda's Whumptober 2020-21 [11]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Established Relationship, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Protective Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27612392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: Tony Stark hates anxiety attacks.He hates Steve Rogers much less--in fact, he just might love the lucky fellow who happens upon him in the middle of one.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Cap'n Panda's Whumptober 2020-21 [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953019
Comments: 10
Kudos: 132





	In Strife and Smooth Sailing

**Author's Note:**

> Who needs a "K" title when you can do another "I"? Besides, we need 31 of these. <3
> 
> Don't worry--I'll get to it, I'll get to it. <3 For now: enjoy.
> 
> -Cap'n Panda

Physiologically, anxiety attacks began their existence as a brilliant, nearly foolproof system.

The sympathetic nervous system—the infamous _fight or flight_ response—was chosen among many lively and retiring alternatives. Through trial and tribulation, it was deemed the best way to keep early humans alive in a hostile, unknown, ever-evolving landscape. The principle that drove its many aspects was simple: react fast, or die.

Those ape-like ancestors who lounged about on the plains without a care in the world were susceptible to the hungry jaguar, and thus were eliminated from the great evolutionary tree of life. Only those who remained alert and reacted quickly stood a chance of long-term survival. And thus anxiety was born.

Every facet of anxiety was tied to its ancestral roots. The body devoted itself wholly to the flight-or-flight response. Blood flowed differently, redirecting finite supplies to core power. (This often had the consequence of leaving hands and feet numb.) As the driving engine of the human body, the heart began to beat at a terrific pace, revved up in anticipation of an equally powerful exertion. (Subsequently, oxygen supplies needed to increase to keep pace with the now hard-working heart, or shortness of breath and lightheadedness would ensue.) Even the ever-churning gastrointestinal system ground to a halt to accommodate what would surely be the prime directive of a young simian’s life. (And led to all sorts of digestive troubles in the process.)

Yes: anxiety was a life-saver. It was a brilliant tool in the evolutionary kit. It would surely be missed by any aspiring primate hoping to dominate the food chain.

Incidentally, it was also the bane of Tony Stark’s existence.

But, really, could he blame the torch that guided his ancestors through the darkness for burning him?

Yes, he decided, huddled under his desk, wrapped in a tarp he used to cover his suits. Yes, it was perfectly fair to blame the torch that had lit the way for generations for burning him. Because it was the kind of trade-off only an idiot gene, interested solely in disseminating itself, would make.

Idiot genes had no feelings, he thought, frozen hands curled around the edges of the blanket. Idiot genes only wanted to _make_ things, without thought for the consequences. It was a dilemma Tony, an intelligent thinking being (made entirely of idiot genes, he was sorry to report), confronted every day with artificial intelligence. He had to be proactive in a way that idiot genes frothing in primordial ooze were not, or people would accuse him of _reckless endangerment_. Exasperating, really. 

He had to consciously build robots not to develop certain traits, like anxiety, even though it was highly evolutionarily stable and therefore desirable. No, he did not want his robots to have anxiety, no matter how many times the simulations suggested including it. Why?

Because anxiety _sucked ass_.

Of course it didn’t _matter_ that it had kept humanity alive for centuries, he huffed. Not one bit, he decided, turning so his shoulder was to the opening under the desk.

He knew he was sulking and was trying—rather unsuccessfully—not to sulk about it. He was a grown man, well beyond the age of hiding under things for pseudo-comfort, and yet, at the whims of his own physiology and a broken car alarm of an alert system, here he was.

Hiding under a desk. For protection. From what? _God only knew_. His anxiety said _everything_. His rational, thinking self thought, _Probably something in the lab_. 

Then his panicked idiot brain gasped aloud at that, interpreting it as, _Danger in the lab_ , and he tugged the blanket over his head, breathing out hard. Inhaling shallowly. Dammit, he needed to _breathe_ , the best—nay only—nay maybe only, _time_ seemed to work, but nobody said how long it took to feel safe in one’s own skin following a paradigmatic upheaval—he needed to goddamn breathe, to calm his heart, and convince his entire nervous system that the entire lab was not on fire with him inside it.

 _Or die. I could die_.

That actually seemed desirable, he thought hysterically, compared to the alternative, stewing in indefinite, restless, nail-biting uncertainty. At least his ancestors could _see_ the trouble lurking in the bush—except, no, that was the trouble with the trouble-lurking-in-the-bush, it was invisible until it was too late, and so, preemptive warning systems, a la _anxiety_ , were contrived to keep humans in a constant state of mild to severe fearfulness.

Oh, good, oh, good, it was the horse’s fucked-up back all over again: idiot genes dictating the course of history, because from an idiot gene’s perspective, anxiety was _amazing_ , anxiety was foolproof, why would any animal want to live a life in remote comfort when that just meant ending in a jaguar’s jaws?

Except even idiot genes understood too much of a good thing—the ape-like ancestors too stressed to _breed_ were suddenly not doing their job, disseminating idiot genes for future generations, and that meant a fine balance between hypo- and hyperactive response systems. One ended in the jaws of a jaguar; the other, in the jaws of defeat. From an idiot gene’s perspective, anyway, which Tony thought was for the birds, because his only children were metal and he would revise that truth only with compelling reason.

Stupid, goddamn, _idiot_ genes, he berated, grabbing his own wrist and squeezing it until the skin turned bone-white. The human body was a goddamn wreck of a machine—the legs were too floppy, the spine too erect, the eyes started life _underwater_ and never forgave idiot genes for shopping clearance when it came to upgrades, and the brain sucked up so much power it should apologize to the rest of the organs for existing in a chronic state of disappointment. 

The human brain was capable of almost unfathomable computational power, yet every single day, Tony was reminded that it was a goddamn worthless upgrade as some manifestation of human thought resulted in a heartfelt eye-roll.

See also: Internet.

Hunched into the smallest ball he could make himself in in a vain attempt to spread the love from his core to his extremities, Tony tried to bribe his brain into taking a breather so his heart would accept that he wasn’t going to fight _or_ flee from a nonexistent problem, but his brain was off watching gorillas discover self-awareness in the mirror and couldn’t be damned to respond to his petty problems.

Idiot genes. Couldn’t even make a _brain_ right—what kind of manual machine still had a mind of its own?

An idiot one, made by idiot genes, Tony thought, banging his head on the underside of the desk when he heard the door slide open. Freezing, mouth shut tightly against any sound—at least the idiot genes got _that_ feature right—Tony listened as Steve Goddamn Rogers said, “Tony?”

 _Oh, oh, good, it’s Steve, this isn’t mortifying at all_. To be fair, Steve had no room to talk about potentially mortifying experiences: he poured milk before cereal, and that was an abomination against God. And if there was one thing Tony could argue more spiritedly about than idiot genes, it was _God_. No Man upstairs could disappoint or frustrate him more than the ones downstairs. He’d almost rather talk to God than the people he encountered on Twitter. Really, if it wasn’t amazing P.R. for Iron Man, he’d shave off his eyebrows before ever _tweeting_ anything again.

He spited the website by posting only pictures of Post-It notes with the word _Tweet_ written on them, in a spirited and prolonged effort to bore his audience into nonexistence. Tragically, his following was only growing. The damn perks of being a celebrity.

 _Live footage of Tony Stark hiding under a desk_ , he thought, a nuisance fly of a thought that he swatted successfully out of existence just as Steve asked pointedly, “Is this a bad time?”

 _Yes, it’s a bad time_ , Tony snapped back, holding very still and keeping very quiet, even though Steve—damn him—could probably hear him breathing, maybe even hear his heart racing.

 _Peak of idiot genes_ , Tony thought, which made him swallow a noise that might have been a laugh under better circumstances.

“I can come back,” Steve offered charitably, and Tony genuinely wondered who he was pretending to talk to—he could watch the security feed later, but where was the _magic_ in that?—but remained committed to his survival strategy, _very still and very quiet_. “I’ll be upstairs,” Steve said, and started to leave.

Realizing Steve was about to _leave him_ with whatever monster had probably slipped into his lab and was camouflaged on his ceiling waiting to devour his soul— _I fucking hate you_ , he thought, flashing a real middle finger at his unthinking, unfeeling idiot genes responsible for all the mucked-up feelings inside him—Tony bleated, “Wait.”

It was small, pathetic. He repeated it: “Wait.”

Steve lingered, painfully still—he could hear Tony but Tony couldn’t hear him and it was _goddamn unfair_ —and Tony sighed noisily through his nose. “I. I may be here,” he said, very dignified, he thought. It was amazing he was speaking, all told. But some people needed it spelled out, and Steve was one of them. “In this room. I’m. I’m just a little.” He struggled to put the words into a configuration that left him more satisfied than ashamed. “I’m very fine, I’m just. Stressed.”

Stress was cool; stress was anxiety’s older brother. It knew things—it _got_ life. When a stressor appeared, stress went _ah!_ and then laughed at itself later for being scared. Stress knew that when life got hard, an excellent survival strategy was to _get harder_. Grab that pesky threat by the teeth and shake the daylights out of it. Problem solved. Stress was a boss that got shit done. Anxiety was a coward that thought ants were crawling all over him.

He was stressed about timelines, namely _deadlines_ , and he was anxious about the imminent, real, terrifying possibility that he could _drop dead_ , at any moment, without warning. Some goddamn guarantees in life wouldn’t go misplaced, when one thought about it existentially. At least eighty years would be agreeable, preferably in outstanding but acceptably in acceptable health. Was a hundred so much to ask? Was _two hundred_? Tony Stark was a dreamer: he’d gladly live a thousand years, just so he could terrorize whatever whippersnappers invented Twitter’s inevitable sequel.

He’d be great at it. He wanted to live a thousand years, because it would remove a solid fifty percent of the stress that was simply, _We are going to die in the future and that future is one day closer every day_.

Steve’s face came into view as he crouched to look under the desk. Tony yelled in alarm; Steve retreated automatically, frighteningly brisk, more wraith-like than human. Then he reappeared at a crouch, hands on his goddamned knees and everything. Disgusting, really. “Would it actually kill you not to be wholesome?” Tony snarked, opening move, _good one, Tony, smart move, makin’ a move_ , and he drop-kicked that voice over a fence because he was hardly winning life when he was _huddled under a desk_.

“You okay?” Steve parried.

“Yes, why?” Tony replied, because if he was quick enough, it didn’t actually matter if he _won_ the argument. He’d still win. “Do I not look it?”

Mistake. Big mistake. Flinching deeper into his huddle, he tried to recover, babbling, “I. Am not. This is for my health.” The concrete was murder on the hindquarters and the desk was hardly a better place to hide, but, hey. At least it was sheltered. Shelter was good. Small was good. Even the dumb blanket he’d snatched was helpful; protection, in the wild.

Steve looked at him for a long moment, waiting for him to break. Tony did not, glowering back at him. Then Steve sighed— _I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed_ —and said, “C’mere.”

Tony stared at him, doe-eyed, pathetic. _Get it together_ , he warned anxiety, which was sobbing pitifully in a corner, refusing to even entertain pulling itself together. They were going to _die_ , and no matter how pretty or nice or good Steve Rogers was, there was absolutely no getting around that awful, treacherous thought. His idiot genes would be the only _Tony Stark was here_ trace left, assuming he disseminated them.

Which he would _not_. Out of spite, he sniffed, horrified that he did so out loud, panicking that he was crying on the outside as he brought a hand up to his face, then covered his dry eyes gratefully.

“C’mon, Tony,” Steve murmured, low and easygoing, like they were two guys having a beer and not two apes, one peak of human perfection, the other a sniveling mess camped under a desk, struggling to make sense of their strange metal world. “Just—come out, for a second.”

That seemed reasonable enough. Tony scooted forward, then, scuttling like a terrified hermit crab into Steve’s arms, gripped onto him tightly. “Don’t leave me,” he begged, burying his head against Steve’s chest. “I need you.”

Steve sat on the floor, legs outstretched, and hugged Tony to himself. His chin tipped to rest gently on top of Tony’s head. “’Course not,” he murmured. “I got you. Where else am I gonna go?” He made it sound so _sincere_.

Absolutely nauseating guy. One of a kind. Tony clung to him like a koala, desperate for his warmth, his groundedness. Steve had inhumanly acute senses—he’d be the first to catch a whiff of real danger and sound the alarm. React accordingly, more likely, but it did not change the fact that Steve Rogers _noticed_ things. There could be no danger if Steve was calm, and Steve was _calm_. He was a walking meditation tape—his breath was naturally deep and even, and he ran so warm it was palpable (annoying, actually, when it was the middle of summer and Steve had adopted him as a personal teddy bear, but at least it beat the alternative of cold toes on warm legs, which Tony was admittedly guilty of initiating). A Captain America hug was worth its weight in gold.

Tony would pay it. Didn’t matter that it was a lot of gold—Steve was a big guy, but that was what made his hugs so _good_. Even Thor shamelessly hugged Steve. It was barely a _we’re dating_ privilege in the Avengers Tower to latch onto him at any moment, soaking in some sunshine. Guy was magnetic, made of something so pure it was hard not to bask in it.

Slowly, slowly, oh so slowly, like the Moon danced ‘round the Earth in perfect synchronous orbit _slowly_ , Tony’s heart began to beat at a normal rate. Once that was taken care of, everything else fell back into its normal rhythm. His breathing slowed. His hands and feet warmed. His whole being felt . . . _whole_ , again. The danger had passed, and he had survived it, and Steve was still holding him.

On a scale of one to ten, everything was good in his world.

Laughing softly, he managed, “You’re a—walking good luck charm,” as he disengaged, patting Steve firmly on the back, like it would make a difference. Steve watched him carefully as he released his death grip on the blanket, following him to his feet, one gentle hand on his hip.

That was the other weird thing about Steve Rogers: he was so damn _gentle_. Most guys had some kind of complex, shaking hands as hard as they could, posturing, throwing their weight around, and even women had a tendency to see Iron Man as indestructible, hanging on his arm and pulling him aside when he was tired as hell and in need of a drink. 

Steve Rogers didn’t seem interested in any of it, or worried about the public perception of himself—which, Tony conceded, huddling against him, soft marble musculature and all, was hardly something he needed to fear. He was simply kind, careful.

Steve was patient, slinging an arm around his back—just one, like he knew that Tony would skitter and squirm out of his hold if he wrapped both around him, panicking over _nothing_ except _I don’t like to be held down_ —and waiting out the last few ripples of panic, of cold fear. Tony couldn’t even say what _caused_ it, except something must have, and that brought him a strange sense of peace. Something always caused the attacks, even if the cause never revealed itself to him.

 _We are ugly machines_ , he thought, comfortable in Steve’s embrace. _We are broken in ways we cannot repair_. Separating themselves from the bad removed the good—there was simply no way to eradicate all traces of junky software without eliminating the vital forces that had saved them from extinction. It was a learning process, a coping process. _Life is tough. So are you_.

He pulled back, and wanted to say something insightful and witty—about evolution, maybe, how they were made of stardust that amalgamated into thinking, thoughtless genes, accidental entities whose sole drive was to stay in existence, somehow, some-way, just like him—and only managed, “Thank you.”

Steve murmured, “Any time.” Then: “Wanna watch a movie?”

Tony frowned. “It’s two p.m.”

Steve’s expression softened, and Tony knew, instantly and gut-twistingly, that it was not. “How about,” Steve offered instead, letting him discover for himself with a surreptitious glance at his watch that it was well after eleven p.m., “we watch a movie, I’ll make some late dinner, you want some dinner?”

Yes, Tony thought, weary and beleaguered and honestly grateful that he had a Steve in his life. Everyone needed a Steve, he thought, and planted his forehead near Steve’s sternum in mute gratitude, worship. The world would be a better place if all the terror could be quelled the way it was when Steve was in the room, silently projecting a simple but unequivocally comforting message: _It’s okay. It’s okay. Everything’s okay_.

No wonder his troops had loved him, Tony mused, nodding and following along, trailing after him even though he knew it was on Steve’s _no-go_ list for stressful times and anxious places—he was relaxed and calm and couldn’t care less about exposing his back to Tony in his right mind, and Tony enjoyed the freedom to watch without being watched, to reach out and grab his shirt without compunction.

The idea of Steve in a war hurt his heart as much as the notion of imminent, amorphous death—it was easy to see the rightness of a soldier in a war, like a picture-book fill-in-the-blank set of premises. It was hard to imagine Steve Rogers—the apple pie sweetheart who helped old ladies cross the road—in constant, unassailable danger. In war, there were no safe places, nowhere to hang up your coat that felt like home on the Front. 

Tony knew that feeling—every day in Afghanistan was a life-or-death ordeal, and it should have surprised him less that it still _affected_ him. He’d tried so damn hard to leave it behind. But he supposed if Steve still walked with a soldier’s gait, perhaps it was only fitting that Tony still had sand in his shoes, too. Some things barely changed with the times.

Steve was as good as his word, cooking up fresh pasta before sitting down with him to watch _Casablanca_ on the couch, both their feet propped up on the long ottoman. Tony made a valiant effort to pay attention—they’d harangued Steve relentlessly on Disney nights that there would be quizzes, it was only fair to return the favor for movies Steve would recognize—but the fatigue he’d been sword-fighting for the past twelve hours suddenly pounced on him, and between one growling line from Humphrey Bogart and the next, Tony was nodding off, drooling on Steve’s shoulder.

Honestly? He wouldn’t have it any other way. And that was the beauty of being two dumb people in love: it wasn’t about perfection when _good enough_ was so close. Besides: he’d seen _Casablanca_ before, and so had Steve.

It was just nice to be together, in whatever shape it took. That was the one foolproof protection against anxiety: togetherness. Safety in numbers.

 _Everything will be okay_ , he thought, awaking briefly, taking in his environment: Steve’s chest, rising and falling slowly; his attention rapt on the holographic screen, dutifully projecting the film from the forties. A tiny smile curved Tony’s lips before he shut his eyes, buried his face against Steve’s shoulder, and signed off.

Steve would protect them. He always did.


End file.
